Salvation
by Foxy Roy
Summary: "Sinners didn't deserve happiness. He was less of a sinner than I, but he was still a sinner. What made him think he was an exception?" A fusion of gaiden, OVA, and original, retelling His Battlefield Once More/Yet Another Man's Battlefield.


**Title - **_Salvation_

**Disclaimer - **Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters are creations and properties of Hiromu Arakawa, and I don't claim any ownership over them or the world of Fullmetal Alchemist.

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><p><strong>Warnings<br>**

- Descriptive violence.

- Adult language.

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><p><strong>Why?<strong>

A word I kept repeating as I sat on the packed earth ground of my tent. So many questions flooded through my head. None of them made any sense as they flitted through my brain. I couldn't grasp a single one. So quick. So erratic. So inane. Everything except my thoughts moved sluggishly. Everything ground to a slow. It was so disorienting; it made everything muddled. So much so, the surroundings blended into each other like a mad palate of browns. Still, I kept chanting. Like I stumbled upon a mantra that gave me one last shred of lucidity. All I knew what to say at that moment was that accursed word.

A chill wormed its way to my marrow, telling me the flap to the entrance lifted. I didn't need to take off the hood draped over my face to tell it was Hughes who came in. A part of me was comforted of his presence. Another part of me was absolutely terrified. A throb of pain ripped over my right pectoral, flashing images that have been permanently burned into my memory. It was like watching a loop of moving pictures that refused to stop. Everything happened so fast; it made my heart palpitate when I slipped out of recalling and into reliving. Everything felt so real; it transformed into a nightmare that wouldn't go away.

_Betrayal, fear, desperation flitting through those crimson eyes. Scorching, tearing, twisting metal burrowing into my flesh. Bullet shells discharging, catapulting, plummeting to the ground. _**_Hughes_**_ - goofy, lovable, benevolent Hughes - _**_killing_**_ someone who was once our _**_friend_**_._ I've seen Hughes fire a gun, but I've _never_ seen him kill another man before. Eyes popped open, nostrils flared, teeth gritted - it was the face of a murderer. The man fired and put a bullet through Heathcliffe's skull. I didn't recognize who he was because he wasn't Hughes. The Hughes I knew wasn't here for battles and fighting and killing - he had a kindness stronger than anyone else's.

Hughes emanated a pitying glance at me. I was a wreck. I gave up on sleeping. The anesthesia pumped into my veins didn't help. Nothing did. I lost sense of time. It was dark outside, but I wasn't sure whether it was early evening or early morning. There was no way to tell. One of the few things that kept me sane since I became the Flame Alchemist was destroyed. Its remains lay on the small table, a bullet hole through the heart of the Amestrian dragon. Just as the watch face was shattered, so was my resolve.

"We've got work to do, Major Mustang." The sound of his footsteps drew closer as his shadow painted the ground. "Today, at 0730 hours, we will commence the extermination of District No. 27." **Extermination.** Sugarcoating didn't have its place on the battlefield. What the Fuhrer wanted was simple. "They said they'd be counting on you today as usual."

Bullshit. I was briefed the attack would begin at 1030 hours. The plan changed for the worst - they weren't giving the Ishvalans a chance. What the military _did_ give was more work for me. More people to destroy. I protested before my brain caught up with my mouth. "You're all slave drivers." Hollow, distant, lifeless. The voice that emerged from my throat wasn't my own. I shouldn't have been surprised.

"They all expect a lot from you. At this rate, you'll be promoted soon." Yes; I followed orders and was going to be rewarded for it. It sounded like a good thing if only I weren't doing the opposite of good.

I didn't feel like talking. I had enough and I wanted to be alone - I needed another moment of silence for myself - but I also needed to know something. I needed answers - some kind of salvation to pull me from the brink of a downward spiral. "Hey, Hughes…" I tightened my grip on the canteen I held in my hands. "Why am I… killing the people of my own country?" Out of all the questions plaguing my battered brain, I had to select that one.

The other man only sighed, as if I should have known the answer all a long. "I told you, the Ishvalans disturbed the peace of the country." More bullshit. Hughes and I knew that wasn't true - my best friend was giving me something the military dangled in front of their dogs. I couldn't blame him for following orders, but… What did he really think? I wanted to know. "The superiors in Central have ordered to purge them."

"Purge, huh?" The word left a bitter taste in my mouth. The military tried to shove something down my throat I couldn't swallow. My anger was silently rising, but my voice remained the same. It was that frightening sort of anger simmering within me. "What a convenient word to disguise indiscriminate slaughter," I spat.

For a while, Hughes didn't say anything. He didn't say otherwise because he couldn't. I knew I won, then. "Speaking of Central…" He came closer and squatted beside me. His entire demeanor morphed - he sounded happier - or at least, what was the ghost of happiness. When he adopted that tone, I internally winced - I knew what he was going to say and do. "I got a letter from Gracia - it came with a picture!" he gushed. "Wanna see? Wanna see?"

"… No; thanks," I muttered. I knew he was trying to lighten the mood - take my mind off the pain - but he completely lost it. Idiot. He just didn't get it, did he? I gritted my teeth. I wasn't in the mood for any of this.

"It'd be really hard for me if I weren't wuved," he continued. Hopeless. The man was completely, entirely, utterly hopeless. "She really is a good woman. Once the war is over and things have calmed down, I'm thinking of proposing to her. I'll invite you to the wedding, too, so be prepared! Dahahahaha!"

Normally, I'd spare him a reaction - some admonishing words like he might get himself killed if he didn't shut his mouth - but I couldn't bring myself to give a damn. I was just so sick of everything and he just made it worse. I was angry. And now, angry at my best friend for being so damn happy. Sinners didn't deserve happiness. He was less of a sinner than I, but he was still a sinner. What made him think he was an exception? "So you'll embrace the woman you love with those hands filthy with blood?" My words carried with no trace of emotion, but it held its razor sharp edge. It was unfair to put him at the receiving end of my one-sided frustration, but he was being such a goddamn fool.

Something snapped inside Hughes. My canteen hit the ground. My throat constricted as he grabbed my collar and balled it into a fist. My mask of indifference remained, despite the rasp of my uniform burning my wound. "You have a problem with that? I learned this on the battlefield: To be with the woman you love and live normally is a happiness that can exist anywhere!" He shook me, as if I could wake up and see that, but I was in too deep. "It's simple, but it's the greatest happiness!" I simply stared at him with lackluster eyes. "I'll do anything to have that happiness. **I'll survive.**"

He paused, grip loosening as anger drained out of him, and was replaced by a blend of pain, remorse, and sorrow. Those sapphire eyes, irises slitted like a cat's, reflected the sickly color of yellow tinfoil as they pleaded for me to understand. Pleaded for me not to condemn him. Pleaded for me not to put him in the same category as myself. "What I've done here… I'll take in all that I've done here, alone, and smile when I'm in front of her." His body trembled as he forced the tears back into their ducts. "**I'll make her happy.**"

Expectant silence. I answered him by averting my gaze. It was no use - there was nothing he can say or do. He had no choice but to let me go, returning me to my previous position. I've been frozen in it for so long; I couldn't feel how sitting on the ground for so long hurt my rump. My nerves were paralyzed, like the rest of my body. Like my emotions. I was a monster. "… We don't have time to talk about such trivial things." He pushed himself off the ground and trained his gaze on the slither of darkness from which the light of my burner escaped. "We've got work to do. Hurry up and get ready."

To occupy myself and concentrate on something. To solve other problems and forget my own. To not think and just follow orders. That seemed to be my only consolation. My only purpose now. A mundane, monotonous, mechanical exercise I desperately clung to. It gave me existence in this wasteland, but… What did it mean to contradict my very purpose? To destroy those I've sworn to protect? Those who didn't bear any weapons? Who can't even fight back? They say cowards die a thousand deaths. For every soul that perished by my hand, I've died. I've died so many deaths; I've lost myself. I've become something unrecognizable. Something grotesque. Something inhuman. Still, I ask myself, as if in denial, _What… __What am I…?_

I clasped my hands together and covered my eyes. Monsters thrived in darkness - I wasn't ready to leave the safety of my sanctuary yet. "… Could you wait for 30 seconds?" It sounded like a simple question, but it was a request that became more important than breathing in oxygen. I needed it more than anything else.

The gentle rattle of numerous tiny chains - the other man withdrawing his pocket watch. "Just 30 seconds, then."

I sat there, waiting. Waiting for the bright red dawn… Waiting for the ghosts to retreat to their graves… Waiting for the darkness to recede… Waiting for the monster to return to its cradle… Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light… Captain Hughes' voice sliced through the silence. "It's been 30 seconds." My eyelids dropped, bidding my sanctuary farewell one final time. "Stand, Flame Alchemist. It's time for work."

"Yes; let's go," I replied. I rose, the hood, along with the rest of my coat, sliding from my form as I donned my pyrotex gloves. I didn't need camouflage - hide what I am - because at that moment, I was sure what I was. I was invincible. I was a soldier. **I was the Flame Alchemist.** The entrance to the tent flanked apart, light penetrating and cleansing my den, the silhouette of my superior imprinting itself into my retina. My eyes, snapped open into narrow, piercing slits, reflected the blood red gash across the sky. How very fitting. "**It's time for war.**"

Columns of fire erupted from Hell, faster than the speed of sound itself. Such an insignificant pop in the vast desert paved narrow pathways of oxygen - the way for my flames - as they lunged for my targets. I made my mark on my territory as my handiwork choked smoke into the sky, bleeding, spreading, curling filth on immaculate azure. I didn't wield a sword and strike. I didn't point a gun and squeeze. I didn't even raise my voice and yell. I simply poised myself and snapped my fingers - nature took care of the rest. My comrades might think I got it better - it was lighter on the body without a weapon - but they were wrong. They've never been so wrong. **I _was_ the weapon.**

Yes; my uniform was stained in black instead of scarlet, but so were my tongue and nose. They were right when they said smell was the strongest memory trigger - I knew the smell of burnt human flesh when I smelled it. It was so thick and rich; I can _swallow_ it. I was a soldier in a time of war - I knew I had to kill sooner or later, so I familiarized myself with the stench of decaying corpses at the infirmary. But something expired was different from something dying right in front of your eyes. I learned that soon enough.

Like many of my comrades, my first kill didn't go as smoothly as I hoped. I was reunited with my breakfast after my stomach turned itself inside-out. It wasn't just the smell, but the utter and unspeakable wrongness of cutting a life short in its full tide. The people I killed weren't dying - **they were alive just as I was alive**. As my flames consumed my victims, they screamed in such agony - hair reduced to a bundle of fuses, blood sizzling beneath their skin, muscles melting from their bones - I was tempted to stop several times. But that would've been cruel - there was no turning back once I ignited the sparks, so I listened to their screams until they were no more. Whenever I used my alchemy - or any alchemy at all - my tongue still folded against the roof of my mouth, as if to block my gullet.

Compared to cadavers, the smell, too, was different. Their bodies were functioning - nerves sending signals; vessels delivering blood, bowels digesting food, and skin, hair and nails growing. Burnt muscle gave an aroma similar to beef cooking on a pan and fat like pork on a grill. I didn't believe in God, but I thanked every deity out there that I knew better. It smelled almost delicious. Almost. Organs didn't burn very well - they smelled of burnt liver. Blood, iron-rich, gave a reek of copper and metal; brain fluid burnt into a musky, sweet perfume; hair was a cross between burning rubber and rotten eggs being cooked. Everything was nauseating but sweet, putrid and steaky at the same time. Once the noxious stench entered my nostrils, it never left - it made a permanent dwelling in my body.

When I finished, I touched my lips to confirm the kill. They always became sticky and greasy, as if a sheet of human fat had been slathered on me - the fabric of my gloves always came away filthy when I tried to wipe it away. I thought of blowing people up instead of burning, hoping it'd be more merciful for them and for myself, but it did no good. No matter what I did, there was always the stickiness and the stench. The soot - the only tangible vestiges of the lives I've ended - entered my body and mingled with my own blood - it permeated my entire being, making sure to stay with me forever. The first time, I vomited; the next, I fainted; after that, a headache. Eventually, I got used to it. I had to. What can I do? There was nothing I can do to get smell to disappear, no matter how long I lived.

After the long and bloody struggle, at last, the gloves came off after my assignment in the Daliha District - the final and most distinguishing act of the Flame Alchemist in that No Man's Land. "She said she would come meet me here in a letter, but…" Hughes trailed as our boots touched the platform at Central. We craned our necks, searching for Gracia after much wheedling to look at pictures of her.

"_Maes!_"

A woman's voice. I've never heard it before, but I was more than sure it came from no other than Gracia - I've never heard anyone else use Hughes' first name before. We turned out heads to the owner's voice, and sure enough, the woman from the pictures was standing in front of us. Names were cried, and they ran into each other's arms, Hughes dropping his knapsack as he wrapped his arms around the woman he loved. _What I've done here… I'll take in all that I've done here, alone, and smile when I'm in front of her. _A burden he took upon himself. A side he had to conceal. A demon he fought alone. No wonder he always got the short end of the stick. In the end, we're all alone. But…

_Hughes,_ I thought to myself as I watched them embrace once more, _you're strong…_ I glanced at my palm. On the surface, it was clean, but what I saw was hand covered in sticky purple - a blend of blood and soot. I started thinking. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe… he _was_ an exception. _I don't have your strength_. I curled my hand into a fist, the energy draining from my fingers as I came to a realization. To hold someone so dear to him - to accept what was supposed to be forbidden fruit for a man like him… I isolated myself and thought I didn't deserve any form of happiness because I loathed myself so. I did this to myself. **The only one who was alone… was I.** The three of us were supposed to return together, but I spun around and departed without farewell, slinging my knapsack over my shoulder.

For the first time, I felt truly alone. While everyone was happy, I was the only one who didn't have a smile on his face. It was foolish of me, but somewhere in my heart, I hoped someone I knew would also welcome me back - shed a tear of joy or two. But that was impossible. I had no one. No one to touch. No one to embrace. No one to kiss. Who would kiss a man who had the hatred of the people he killed spattered on his lips? No matter how much I wiped, it wouldn't come off - my sins followed me everywhere. Still, I longed for the day when someone can wipe the oil off and claim my lips. Claim me, even for what I am. Only then will I heal and find my own happiness. Only then will I be saved.

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><p><strong>Notes<strong>

- As mentioned, this piece is a fusion of gaiden, OVA, and original. References to Heathcliffe Arbor are from the OVA - he's an anime-only character - while Mustang refusing to see the pictures is from the gaiden. The original aspect is obviously my interpretation of Mustang's thoughts during the exchange, as well as his experiences on the battlefield.

- In the gaiden, the extermination of District No. 27 is set to 1030, while the OVA places it as 0730. I decided to use both times to further justify Mustang's calling the Military "slave drivers".

- Hughes' eyes are blue in the manga, and yellow in the anime. Again, I used both in such a manner that the differences were reconciled with each other.

- The descriptions of the smells were collated from the experiences of firemen, and of people who experienced burns and fire accidents.

- In the manga, Mustang mentions that when a person burns, their lipids disperse in the air, causing the area around one's lips to become sticky with greasy fat. Aside from the smell, this is also how he confirms a kill.


End file.
